Dead and Ganache

by Colette London

  They did. But it wasn’t all corsairs and rebels between us.

  “I almost forgot—your pop-star video crew? They’re working for Lucas Lefebvre,” Danny told me. “I’ll send you links to his social-media accounts, in case you’re curious or you want to add him to your suspects list. I know you’re all about the lists.”

  He was right. “It’s as if you’ve known me a long time or something.” I was kidding, but I couldn’t keep the warmth out of my voice. I cared about Danny. “Also, bravo on the research.”

  “Hey, the Human Calculator isn’t the only one who can work a computer.” A pause. “My nurse is a big fan of Lefebvre.”

  Aha. I smiled. “I’ll have to check him out. Thanks for the tip and the all-star support, Brainiac. I’ll talk to you later.”

  At my new moniker for him, Danny laughed. He was still chuckling as we signed off. Moments later, my phone dinged. I opened Danny’s message and clicked the links. Hubba hubba.

  Lucas Lefebvre was the moody guy I’d seen in the château’s garden. He was every bit as attractive as he’d seemed from afar, too. At least he was, if a quick scroll-through was any proof.

  Well, I decided, maybe there was a teensy bit of room left on my suspects list. I had to be absolutely thorough, right?

  It was time to introduce myself as a just-inducted member of the Lucas Lefebvre fan club. I double-checked my feminine allure (lip gloss and mascara, for the win!), shook out my hair, then took my sneakers-and-jeans self downstairs to the garden.

  * * *

  I should have known that taking three seconds to primp would cost me my opportunity to accidentally bump into Lucas Lefebvre. That’s why I usually run so low maintenance. Who knew what I might be missing while laboriously applying eyeliner or concealer, or doing something beyond wash-and-wearing my hair? This time, though, even my minimal grooming routine hadn’t delivered the goods. Lucas was already gone when I arrived.

  Disappointed, I stopped beside the fountain. Its tinkling waters lent a certain calm to le jardin (the garden). So did the rows of still-green boxwood hedges, tidy symmetrical plantings of flowers, and nearby arbor full of long wisteria vines. Taken all together, the effect was beautiful. I could have lingered among the topiaries and gravel paths for quite some time.

  But I had a pop star to track down and beguile, so I perked up and followed the nearest path into some trees. Once amid them, I felt miles away from the fountain. Tall hedges blocked it from view, creating the effect of a private outdoor room.

  No wonder Hélène and Hubert had had their tryst in the garden. Even though their assignation spot was only a few meters from Monsieur’s barn-atelier, they could have been secretly meeting there for weeks with no one the wiser.

  I kept going, glancing down to admire a planting bed laid out in a classic fleur-de-lis pattern, like a carpet made of greenery. Impressive. I passed a modern art sculpture, then an ancient-looking bust. More flowers. No hunky Parisian pop star.

  Maybe meeting Lucas wasn’t in the cards today. But I hadn’t become proficient at making chocolate by giving up, so I walked on. Birds chirped in the trees. In the distance, the blue sky arched overhead, empty except for a few wispy clouds. It occurred to me that I hadn’t heard a single jet roar overhead—something I experienced with regularity in most places I went.

  The peacefulness lulled me into slowing down. The garden deserved no less. Like the best chocolate, its wonders were only revealed to those who paid sufficient attention—those who noticed the tiny stream trickling alongside the piled-stone fence and the peephole trimmed into the hedges to provide a look backward, as if through a window. Intrigued, I looked in.

  Someone else’s face stared back at me.

  With a yelp, I stumbled backward. I twisted my ankle. Ouch.

  Not sure how bad the damage was, I quit moving. That’s when he approached—the person on the other side of the hedge.

  You’re expecting me to say it was Lucas Lefebvre. That’s the way it would have gone down in the movies, with the pop star noticing the chocolate expert in a meet-cute scenario involving a dainty injury, then music playing as he carried her to safety.

  Except it wasn’t Lucas Lefebvre. It was Hubert Bernard.

  Angry Bloody Hands Man himself.

  He gave a muttered exclamation and rounded the corner, carrying a wicked-looking set of gardening shears—the kind of thing a killer might opportunistically pick up in such a spot.

  I widened my eyes and backed up farther, not even thinking about babying my ankle. It would be fine—if I escaped from this.

  Had Hubert remembered me as the witness from last night? Had he followed me here? Had he waited until I was deep in the garden—where I’d already observed we wouldn’t be seen—to attack?

  I considered running. But I kept my head instead. Monsieur Bernard was an older man, probably sixty-five if not more. It seemed likely I could outmaneuver him, if necessary. Besides, I knew how to take care of myself, given my solo traveling past.

  More than once, my patented anti-mugger move—battle tested on the streets of Barcelona and in San Francisco—had saved me.

  “Bonjour. Vous allez bien, Madame?” Hubert asked.

  He wanted to know if I was all right. Yes and planning to stay that way, I thought with a lift of my chin. I couldn’t help seeing him as he’d been last night, murderously looming over my mentor. He wasn’t going to get away with it, I vowed to myself.

  “Oui, merci.” Warily, I eyed him, still alert for trouble.

  As usual, my accent gave me away. “Ah, you speak English?” Hubert thumped his chest with his non-weapon-wielding hand. “Me, too.” He seemed pleased by that. “You enjoy the gardens?”

  I had to admit, he didn’t seem threatening today. In the clear light of another Breton autumn morning, Hubert Bernard seemed . . . well, miserable. Preoccupied. And a little shaky.

  His wrinkled, shears-holding hand trembled. With eagerness to stab me? Surreptitiously, I tested my ankle. It held. Whew.

  “Ouai.” Yeah. “Very much.” I examined him as we talked, taking in his grass-stained trousers and perspiration-creased shirt. Hubert wore a fisherman’s cap similar to one Monsieur had been fond of wearing. Beneath it, his eyes were watery, his face lined with fatigue. Frankly, he looked dreadful. “Very nice.”

  It was a meager way to wind up a detailed conversation about the château’s gardens, but it was the best I could come up with while simultaneously making mental notes about my number one suspect in Philippe’s murder and staying ready to make a quick getaway, if necessary. I glimpsed Lucas Lefebvre passing down another gravel walkway and considered flagging him down.

  Not yet. I needed to find out what I could from Hubert.

  “I am pleased.” Hubert gestured at the grounds with his shears, seeming less than committed to killing me with them. “I have been working these grounds since forty years, almost.”

  “Forty years?” I raised my brows. “With the Vetaults?”

  “But of course!” His voice quavered, though, and his eyes turned a shade murkier. He pulled out a hanky and blew his nose. “Merde. Désolé, Madame. It has been a difficult time.”

  He was playing it innocent then, hmm? The nerve.

  “Yes, I heard about Monsieur Vetault’s sudden death.” I could scarcely squeeze the words past my constricted throat. I thought I might bawl at any second. But this was important.

  So far, Hubert hadn’t seemed to recognize me. Either he was a masterful actor, or he somehow didn’t remember last night.

  “It’s truly a tragedy,” I said. “Had you known him long?”

  “Pour toujours. Forever,” Hubert told me in a dejected voice. Because he was sorry to have killed his friend? He blinked up at the sky, struggling to collect himself. “It does not seem possible that he is gone. When I heard the news this morning, it seemed that the light had gone from the sky.”

  Hold on a minute. “You heard . . . this morning?”

  His gaze swiveled t
o me, suddenly sharp. “You have poor manners, Madame. This is enough talking. Please enjoy the garden.” He straightened his shoulders. “Bonne journée.”

  Hubert saluted me with his shears, then turned. As he did, a current of cold, oddly scented air passed between us.

  I recognized that odor. Whiskey. Never my favorite.

  Given that smell, Hubert’s unsteady stance, and his bleary-eyed appearance, the conclusion seemed obvious. Hubert Bernard has been absolutely plastered last night at the Fest-Noz. And he seemed to be hungover today in a handily memory-erasing way.

  It was all a little too convenient for my liking.

  Hubert had already occupied the top spot on my suspects list, but he’d just cemented his position. Between his “memory loss,” his affair with Hélène, and his presence at my mentor’s death last night, I couldn’t believe he was a free man today.

  I needed to track down Travis and find out the reason.

  * * *

  Seated across from me at château Vetault’s terraced outdoor dining area, Travis closed his eyes and moaned. “Mmm. Mmm.”

  His uninhibited, throaty rumble attracted all the attention you’d expect it would. My financial advisor lay his palms flat on the table—never in your lap in Europe, if you don’t want to be rude—and went on savoring his last bite of chocolate mousse.

  The diminutive silver spoon it had been served with sat alone in Travis’s delicate dessert dish, which had been scraped impressively clean by my financial advisor. I’d say one thing for Travis. He knew when and how to prioritize thoroughness.

  I liked that about him. I also liked his (apparent) love of sweets. When the château’s pastry chef had wheeled over a cart full of desserts to conclude our leisurely lunch and invited us to make whatever selections we wished, Travis had taken charge.

  In melodious, husky French, he’d ordered almost one of everything. A caramel apple tart with almond frangipane. Three clouds of mousse in dark, semi-sweet, and milk chocolate flavors. Butter cookies with sea salt. A custard of pistachio, cream, and thyme. A cake made with honey from the château’s beehives. Mocha macarons. Not for us to share, either—for us to experience individually. Whether that was because my keeper knew and agreed with the unspoken French preference not to share dishes or because Travis simply had a lust for chocolate, I didn’t know.

  He saw me noticing and grinned. “Hey, we can expense it all, right?” He offered me a toast with his wineglass. “To generous old Uncle Ross, and all his lovable eccentricities.”

  I flashed back to Danny’s insistence that I was nothing but a meal ticket to Travis and wished I hadn’t. That wasn’t fair.

  I was the one who’d suggested lunch. Who wanted to sleuth on an empty stomach? Now, after several delightful dishes, we were ready to settle down with the cheese course, then coffee.

  All in all, dining with Travis was a nice change of pace from Danny, who usually championed a street-vendor hot dog and beer as the answer to any lunch-related questions. My security expert preferred the salty and spicy side of the culinary spectrum. For Danny, the closer a meal was to incinerating his remaining taste buds, the better (and more memorable) it was.

  In some ways, my oldest friend and I were utterly incompatible. Not that I intended to quit trying to win over Danny to the right (chocolaty) side of things, because I didn’t.

  Over a few delectable slivers of Breton cheese, I informed Travis of my morning’s progress. I took my time describing Mathieu, Hubert, the redheaded woman, and (even) Lucas Lefebvre.

  Then, because I wanted jealousy to be Danny’s issue, not mine, I got around to the subject of Travis’s cozy tête-à-tête with l’agent Flamant at the café in the centre-ville. I didn’t want to seem as though it bothered me that my financial advisor had gotten up close and personal with the policière, because it didn’t. If it bugged me at all, it was only because I never seemed to get my turn with a whirlwind on-the-road romance.

  “So, how did things go with Mélanie Flamant?” I set my fragile coffee cup in its saucer. “What did you find out?”

  Silence. I glanced up to see Travis studiously avoiding my gaze. He looked at the yellow damask tablecloth, the view of the ocean beyond the château’s garden, the other diners, the few morsels of cheese still remaining on his plate. He cleared his throat, then adjusted his glasses. A flush crept up his neck.

  Travis, I deduced, was embarrassed. He could be ruffled.

  “Or did the policière not want to discuss the case?” I persisted. “The two of you looked pretty chummy at the café.”

  As I should have expected, my keeper snapped out of it.

  “Mélanie and I did hit it off quite well,” he confided, his usual control firmly back in place. “As you would expect, I approached her with a few queries about you, your status as a witness, your security as a witness, and so on.” Travis gave me a level look. “My company is indirectly in charge of your well-being. I’m in charge of it. I explained as much to Mélanie.”

  I didn’t quite understand. “You ‘queried’ her? And somehow that resulted in the two of you playing footsie in a café?”

  He compressed his mouth. “I needed to learn, as your financial advisor, what your status was. Vis-à-vis your leaving Saint-Malo, your future duties as a witness, and your safety.”

  I couldn’t help grinning. “You sweet-talker, you.”

  “Especially in light of Hubert Bernard having been released,” Travis continued doggedly. “Those were pertinent questions and could only be answered by l’agent Flamant.”

  “You mean Mélanie. Are you two tutoyer-ing already?”

  Tutoyer sounds naughty. But it’s simply the practice of moving from formal French terms of address to more familiar ones. Mathieu Camara and I were still vouvoyer-ing each other.

  Travis shook his head. But he grinned back. It turned out he could take a little ribbing. That was good. For both of us.

  “I had questions,” he said. “Mélanie suggested addressing them over coffee at the café down the street. That’s it.”

  “Oh, I doubt that’s it.” I leaned my chin in my hands to listen more closely, not caring if it was (slightly) rude to prop my elbows on the table. The terrace was emptying anyway.

  “That’s it for now,” Travis clarified. He looked like the cat the who swallowed the canary. “We’re having dinner later.”

  “Travis!” Why did the men in my life have all the luck?

  Somewhere around here, I had to find Lucas Lefebvre.

  “Forging a sense of camaraderie with her will help us.”

  I raised my eyebrow. “Is that what we’re calling it?”

  “I can’t help it if Mélanie had a . . . strong reaction to me.” Travis gazed longingly as the dessert cart came gliding by again. I didn’t know how he stayed so fit while (apparently) subsisting on a steady diet of sugar, butter, and more sugar. On the other hand, I managed to keep things in line by only taking a few scrumptious bites of everything I wanted. “You can’t tell me Danny doesn’t hit it off with sources.”

  “‘Hit it off’?” I gave a wry grin. “You could say that.”

  “Whereas I have other, smarter methods,” my financial advisor informed me. “Effective, businesslike, proven methods.”

  “Does Mélanie know you’re so analytical?”

  “Of course she does. I’ve been nothing but aboveboard.”

  “I’d expect no less.” But I still wished I could have been a fly on the wall when Mélanie Flamant suggested coffee. “So what you’re saying is that Mélanie likes hot foreign guys?”

  It took Travis a second to catch on that I meant him.

  Then, “So what you’re saying is that I’m a hot guy?”

  Whoops. He had me. This time, it was my turn to pretend to be absorbed in the terrace’s upscale furniture, bottles of chilled Breton apple cider, and politely efficient waitstaff.

  It really was impressive how well-run the château was. I’d scarcely had to think about a glass of water b
efore a full goblet had appeared. Everyone who’d taken care of us at lunch had been pleasant, skilled, and interested in our contentment.

  Best of all, no one had batted an eye at all those desserts we’d ordered—not even when Travis had gone back for seconds on the chocolate mousse, and I’d dared to dip my spoon into his dish. That kind of discretion always earns a gold star from me.

  Now, in response to Travis’s “hot guy” inquiry, I shrugged. Pretending indifference to my keeper’s good looks was an Oscar-worthy performance. “Mélanie must think so. Otherwise, how do you explain getting any information from her at all?”

  “It’s called ‘interviewing a source.’ It’s a tactic I learned someplace . . .” My financial advisor snapped his fingers and grinned at me. “Oh yeah, at that fancy school I went to.”

  “Good going, Harvard.” I toasted him with my coffee cup, then finished off my dark roast. “What did you find out? Are there any other leads? What was the murder weapon, anyway? I couldn’t tell last night.” I shuddered, remembering its lethal appearance. “Why was Hubert Bernard released already, and exactly what is wrong with the local gendarmes? Their approach to investigating is lazy at best, if you ask me.”

  I was still miffed that my tip about the graffiti at the chocolaterie hadn’t been jumped on with a little more zeal.

  “Leads? Yes.” Travis drew in a deep breath. “But Mélanie wouldn’t give me any details. Murder weapon? They’re not sure what it is yet. Some type of multipronged metal implement.”

  It sounded like a gardening tool to me—one more black mark against Hubert. Somehow, I needed to see it. “And?”

  “Hubert Bernard was only taken into custody last night because he was too drunk and distraught to get home safely,” Travis told me. “Apparently it was a protective measure.”